Perfect Timing
by Micky CIA
Summary: When you find yourself alone in the bar, thinking that today, at this hour, you might be the only one mourning that tragedy fourteen years ago...you have a run in with someone who knows exactly how you feel. You don't know, but it's America, and yes, he's the hero.


You were sitting in a bar. You had been there for hours now, watching the clock, at the end of the other side of the stretch of stools, sat a man, a lonely looking fellow, drinking beers and taking shots, almost the same thing you were doing. It was a new place for you, the old place…well, it wasn't around, it hadn't been around for…well I'll be damned, fourteen years-two hours and thirty minutes ago. The bar keep was asking the man to move down a couple seats your way so he could wipe the counter down, the bar was open late, it opened a few hours ago, right about the time you showed up. There was a couple in earlier, sharing stories, laughing, and having a good time. But you didn't care much for their joy. You sat still in the bar on the maroon stools, red flannel shirt unbuttoned and a black tank top underneath, blue jeans, with way too many rips, you probably should've thrown them out years ago now that you think about it. Your hair was in and out of a ponytail all night, the bar smelled faintly of cigarettes and fermentation. When the door opened though, you could hear over the music, cars of the busy city rushing by, this town really never slept, but the bar was unusually empty, most likely because it was a Thursday. Tomorrow it would be packed. People dancing, having a good time, all the stuff you wouldn't be doing.

Pulled away from your thoughts, an old Trace Adkins song came on, you could tell by the opening fiddle which song it was, you tried your best to not sing along, but in the end, you failed yourself. "I never thought that this is where I'd settle down…" You swigged the beer in your hand and motioned to get another shot sent your way. "…I'd thought I'd die an old man, back in my home town. They gave me this plot of land…me and some other men, for a job well done…" He brought you your shot of Jack Daniels, and you took it quickly, the burning sensation letting you know that you were still here, still alive…

"There's a big white house sits on a hill just up the road. The man inside he cried the day they brought me home…They folded up a flag, and told my mom and dad…we're proud of your son." You let a tear roll down your cheek, you didn't bother to wipe it. "…and I'm proud to be on this peaceful piece of property. I'm on sacred ground and I'm in the best of company…I'm thankful for those thankful for the things I've done…I can rest in peace. I'm one of the chosen ones…I made it to Arlington…" There was a shuffle of feet as the man finally got up from his spot and sat two stools down from you. Looking up, he was mumbling the words as well. You watched him sing the next line, while whispering the words under your own breath.

"I remember daddy brought me here when I was eight…" He had taken a sip of his own beer and motioned for a shot himself, you let the keep know you wanted one as well. You both were singing along quietly. "We searched all day to find out where my grandad lay. And when we finally found that cross, he said son this is what it costs, to keep us free…now here I am a thousand stones away from him." You both took your shots. "He recognized me on the first day I came in, and it gave me a chill. When he clicked his heels, and saluted me…" The man in glasses now sitting a few seats over raised his beer to you, reciprocating, you each sang a little louder. "…and I'm proud to be on this peaceful piece of property. I'm on sacred ground and I'm in the best of company. I'm thankful for those thankful for the things I've done. I can rest in peace, I'm one of the chosen ones…I made it to Arlington. And every time I hear, twenty one guns, I know they brought another hero home…" You looked up at each other solemnly, "…to us." The fiddle solo made you both overwhelmed in emotion. "We're thankful for those thankful for the things we've done, we can rest in peace, cause we are the chosen ones, we made it to Arlington. Yeah dust to dust, don't cry for us…we made it to…Arlington…" Trace Adkins voice echoing into the night, you casually stared at each other, stealing glances over the song and ending fiddle.

"Let me clear your tab for you." Reaching for your wallet, you offered to pay for his drinks so far, he shook his head.

"My boss pays for this, let me grab yours." The blonde put down a card and the bartender picked it up and motioned over to you, the blonde man nodded and he left with the card to the cash register.

"You don't make it easy on me…You should've let me pay…Every year I pick up someone's tab and try to drink as much as I'm able…" You let your gaze fall to your beer bottle, letting your fingers run along the cool glass containing a yellow liquid. He moved another seat closer, peering at the extra shots the bartender had brought back on the house when he brought back the mans card.

"Why is that?" Sipping his own beer and casually pushing your shot closer to you.

"…because there's two thousand, nine hundred, and seventy seven reasons…" You didn't mean to, but your voice cracked under the strain of holding back tears. The man stared at you and put your shot in your hand.

"I can drink to that." In the background, another Trace Adkins song came on, this one…hit even closer to home. The words from the Jukebox echoed in your ears.

"Where were you when they world stopped turning…on that September day…" You both hastily took your shots to stop any more tears that dare fall, only Jack Daniels had finally given up on you and let your tears fall openly.  
He started to take gulps of his beer, trying to stop his own tears. You, you never did this, but you got up and placed your hand on his back, that gesture let him know you both were here for the same reason…he turned and hugged you gently. Knowing you wanted to cry, and he wasn't about to rob you of that moment because he wanted to sob, he would let you instead. You buried yourself into the just met mans' brown bomber jacket, clinging to the stranger, tears running down your face.

"If I can promise I wouldn't hurt you, and not try anything…Would you make sure I wasn't alone tonight…" The man asked with such sincerity, almost with the innocence of a child. His blue eyes were filled to the brim with tears, but they did not fall from his eyes. Something about him made you feel safe.

"Can I know your name first?" You tried to stop crying after asking the question. His hand daringly touched your face, ever so sweetly, wiping the last tear away.

"Alfred Jones. But Alfred is just fine."

The next morning you awoke to an apartment, decked out to be the most beautifully and perfectly designed apartment you had ever laid eyes on. Cowboy memorabilia decorated the shelves neatly while red white and blue were the reoccurring theme. What interested you probably the most at the time being was the sound of pots and pans clanging around in the other room, it sounded almost as if noisy cooking was taking place. You got up and peered down at yourself, the man had indeed kept his promise. You were fully clothed in the same attire as you had been when you left he bar, all the way down to your socks. As you went to leave the room, you peered over to a chair that had a note on it. Scrawled in some of the most amazing old fashioned cursive you had ever seen was, 'you can wear these if you'd like, I don't know if you want to stay in the same clothes from the night before. –Alfred' After changing into the baggy cargo pants that were a bit too long and an t-shirt a size too big, you went out of the room and into the kitchen following the noises. The man was cooking.

"Now, before you eat this, I just want to make it clear that I never claimed to be an amazing cook, but, I learned to make these from my brother Matthew. I wasn't about to call him down here to do em, so I made them myself." He set down a plate of delicious looking pancakes, an aspirin, a small glass of water, and a large glass of milk. Staring at the back of the mans' head, you couldn't help but hope that next year, and the year after that, even the year after that, just maybe, you could always on this day, have someone to sit in silence with at the bar, share some shots, and sit and mourn with….just maybe.

Alfred looked back over his shoulder while cooking his own food, watched you take the aspirin, and start in on your pancakes, he couldn't help but hope that every year, he wouldn't be alone the night before. That he could sit in the most perfect silence he's ever had, and just exist, and just drink, and not be alone, and not feel the pain he's felt for almost fifteen years. If things would be like this every year, he wouldn't mind crying and getting drunk with someone other than his friends on the night of this day with him. That silence, said so much more about this person, than his friends making him laugh could. He was grateful he had run into you. Almost as if, it was Perfect Timing.


End file.
